


Waiting for Arwen

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [52]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Accepting responsibility, Combing, Elrond's dodgy books, F/M, Fourth Age, Growing Up, Hair, M/M, Still waiting, Waiting, sibling relationships, the difference between mischievous and downright nasty pairs of brothers, weird elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elladan and Elrohir do not sail with their father. They wait, they wait with their sister.</p><p>They wait until the end.</p><p>It is a long while coming.</p><p>(And they have time to try and make what is wrong, right. Or - as some might put it - meddle in other elves' business.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for Arwen

**Author's Note:**

> "Three Houses" was originally going to be a single story. Only it has got too long, and too complicated (and I had a nasty scare where I thought my computer had eaten it all), so it is now a series within Rising-Verse. 
> 
> This is Part One, the House of Elrond.
> 
>  
> 
> .

He looks at me, sleepy, all combed-out, and raises his eyebrow – and the gesture hurts, it is so like Ada – before saying,

“Come on, out with it, tor-nin, stop wondering how to say it.”

I laugh, I cannot help it, and I try to explain,

“It is just – I wonder sometimes – do you think – are we missing out?”

He frowns, and for a moment I think he is angry, but he does not feel angry; then I realise he is simply checking his thoughts have followed mine correctly,

“Not marrying?”

I shrug,

“Well, not – kissing. Or – or any of the rest of it,” I pause and shrug again, “not marrying, yes, I suppose that is what I mean.”

He considers,

“But – there is none I would marry. And – I think I would know – none you would.”

I colour.

“I did not precisely mean that,” I say, but my ears are burning, and I cannot find the words.

For a moment, I cannot even meet his eyes, and then,

“Oh.” He says, and he sounds – blank. “I thought – when we vowed – we said – not that. Is it – that you – “

“No,” I say, hastily, “no, never. I – I just – do you think we are right?”

He creases his brow, and I know he is thinking – how could I not – I know his face as my own – his face is my own, few indeed can tell us apart – and I read that he is not angered, not even particularly concerned by my words. Why would he be, I suppose, he knows there is nothing – nothing that could possibly part us, nothing of which we cannot speak, nothing that we cannot bear together.

“Yes,” he says, after a long pause, “I do. Still. I think – it is all very well for those who – who want elflings. They have to – to do – all that. But I still do not know why any others would do – that. Those books – and when we have seen mortals kissing – it is all – just – yurgh.” He shivers with disgust, and I know – and he knows – I share the feeling.

How could any want to – to do such things? Even just – that kissing – it is not like – when we kiss, gentle, kind, comforting – it is – for we have seen mortals – and even elves, when they are married – it is like – each trying to get inside the other. So – much. And the phrase is unfortunate – reminding me as it does of those things we read. 

Yuck.

It is a childish word – we are too old to talk like that, and well we both know it – but – at the same time – it is the only word I know that describes how I feel – how we feel – about the whole – business.

He shrugs again,

“Perhaps Arwen and – and Elessar do not. After all, they have no child yet. Perhaps they are putting it off. Surely – he cannot be any more keen than we would be. He was not brought up among mortals. He must see how – it cannot be clean.”

I had not thought of that.

I smile, relieved. Yes. Perhaps our little sister is not – completely lost to sense.

Then I remember.

“But – we saw them,” I say, “kissing.” I do not add – and we saw them leave the balcony and go into their bedchamber, still – still touching. 

We are silent.

He runs his hand through my hair again, and I push into the movement. 

We comb again, and it is good.

“Gi melin, tor-nin,” I say, and as ever, he echoes, “Tor-nin, melin-gi.”

We cannot understand why any would want more than this.

 

 

 

Yet, when we leave, there is something in our sister’s face that tells us that we are – perhaps – being naive.

It is an odd thought. Older than her, always allowed more freedom, these many years we have considered ourselves much wiser in the ways of the world than she. After all, we have been riding out, killing orcs, fighting, questing, spending time among soldiers both elvish and mortal – yet – suddenly – she seems – to be smiling a secret, quiet smile at us, as though we are foolish elflings, waving wooden swords and thinking we can kill a dragon.

We ride, as we often do, in silence.

No need to talk, really.

We learnt not to sing long ago, for the sake of stealth. It is a habit we have to hide from others – it is too strange, too unelven – but when we are together – we can be as we please.

The days pass.

“Stop at Lorien?” he asks, and I realise it is the first time we have spoken since we left the company of others.

I nod, and we continue in silence.

 

 

Lorien is quieter, it seems to me. Perhaps not, perhaps it is my imagination, but without Daernaneth it seems – quieter. The colours dull.

I wonder for a moment if home – Imladris – would seem quiet and dull without Ada. Even as I think it, he looks at me, and I know he has read my thought when he nods.

“Probably,” he says, “we should still go there, soon. Ada said Glorfindel and Erestor stayed to give us a home – it was kind of them.”

Yes. And so we should repay that, show we appreciate it.

But it is not a very pleasant thought.

 

 

We seem to be further into Lorien than I would have expected before any of the wardens challenge us.

Of course, it is Haldir. 

It is always Haldir.

Annoying, pompous elf.

“Who are you, and what do you here?” he says.

It is a good thing, I think, that I am not alone. Ever the polite, controlled one of the two of us, ‘Ro simply laughs at him.

Defuses the moment. 

I do not hit him, as I long to do.

“Haldir,” he says, “you know perfectly well who we are, and I know that you know, and your Lord will be pleased to see us. So take us to Daerada.”

He looks for an instant as though he would argue, then he sighs, and lowers his bow,

“I am sorry, my lords,” he says, and never did I think I would hear him sound so sincere, “I almost did not know you. I am – what is the word – tired, I think. I do not always think straight these days. None of us find we do. The world outside changes, as it always has, but somehow – in here it seems – days pass and I know not how they were spent. Lorien is – has always – drifted from mortal-time – but it becomes worse.”

Ro smiles, and makes some anodyne answer. 

I am silent in shock. 

I suppose we always knew Daernaneth was the power here, but to hear that the realm begins to fail – to drift so badly – to hear of such confusion – and especially from one so proud as Haldir – truly the world begins to change.

And I know not whether it is a sign we should go to our home, or a warning that we will not like what we find.

 

 

 

Daerada does not come with us to Imladris.

We think – we do not know – but we think he is rather enjoying some time to do as he wishes. To be Celeborn. Not Galadriel’s husband, not Elrond’s law-father, but just – Celeborn.

Much as we are rather enjoying, now we are away from Gondor, being simply – us. Not the sons of Elrond, not the brothers of the Queen, just two combmates travelling.

 

 

 

In the end, that, and care for our sister, is the excuse we make to leave Imladris once more. All is not well there – and we cannot see what to do to make it right.

So many have left – it is quiet, and the few elves remaining seem to have either little to do but fall into melancholy, or too much to do, and are overly busy.

Glorfindel is – as he often has been these last years – ill-tempered. We do not know why, or when he changed, but it seems a long time now since we saw him laugh, and sing, and share his comb in joyfulness. Now there is something in his eyes, something that speaks of a deep unhappiness – but we are no healers, we are not Ada.

Not that Ada ever seemed to see it, not that Glorfindel would ever speak of it.

We think – we have talked of this at length – that after his death, he has never been able to accept that anything else could hurt him, or matter. But this – whatever it is – does.

One night he is out – checking the guards, it is called, but we hear him return later – much later – and he has been drinking, and he has been, we think, among mortals, from his language and the smell of beer on him next morning. I ask him – I dare, ‘Ro does not – what he can possibly want with mortals that he has not here – for it is an open secret that Erestor loves him beyond sense, that he waited all these years for Glorfindel to feel free of his warriors, that they took combing vows the instant Glorfindel asked. He looks at me, and there is that sense of something dreadful, something hidden, and then he gathers his perfection round him like a shield, and brushes my question away.

Erestor remains his usual self. Calm, collected, interesting to talk to, interested in all we have to say.

But Erestor would look like that were he the last elf alive, watching the world burn.

We do not know what to do, how to help.

We love them both – they have always been good to us – they taught us so much, over the years – and to see them not now content, when the peace all have longed for is come – it seems a waste. 

But there is nothing to be done.

Perhaps we even make it worse, staying here, reminding them of times gone by, we decide. And so we move on.

Restless as ever, they say, and we laugh.

What else can we do?

 

 

 

On we go, travelling between all those who are pleased to see us – and pleased to see us leave.

Arwen – our little sister – is very happy. She laughs with us, she smiles at our foolishness, as though we are elflings. She has no need of us.

Daerada is – well – enjoying himself. We suppose it is his Sindar blood coming out. He drinks a quite remarkable amount of wine these days – but unlike the rumours we have heard of the Woodland King, he remains not unaffected and imperturbable. 

Truth be known, this new Daerada is rather to our taste. He is fun. He is as we remember him when we were small, and life was easy, and Naneth – Naneth was well. 

Anyway. 

Daerada challenges us to drink with him, to ride with him, to walk the ropes with him, to swim with him. 

“If he behaves like this when we are not here,” ‘Ro says, quietly, to me, “then he will never sail. He will break his neck first.”

I bite my lip, because it is true. We look at each other, and wonder if we should stay here. If it is our duty to take care of him, prevent him doing something even more foolish.

One of the Galadhrim – I do not know his name – reassures us,

“He is not much calmer when you are elsewhere – but then we stay with him. He is not alone. We care for him, you know,” and we see that indeed they do.

Daernaneth may have been the power here, but the elves also love Daerada.

 

 

 

One evening we are joined by guests. 

The sons of Thranduil. 

We had forgotten they have come to live – not in Lorien itself – at least, I think not, it is not entirely clear – but in the part of their Father’s realm which the old fox ceded to Daerada. And still, we are not sure why he did that. 

He will have had a good reason, that we are certain. 

Daerada is reminiscing about times gone by – battles and drinking he has shared with Thranduil – it is not always clear whether he speaks of centuries long gone, or the War just past. Daerada has drunk well already this night.

“Are neither of you married?” ‘Ro is making conversation only – as if we care – when he says this to the two blond brothers, but they draw themselves up, insulted.

“We are both of us married, both of us have children – older than you. Those who survived the years of danger are at home, with their families, as they should be. Elves need not wander ceaselessly, not if they have a home under branches. Elves who lived close to darkness, elves who are not pampered lordlings know this.” 

I am not sure which speaks – they are indistinguishable in my mind. I hear the words, feel the insult, but – I cannot be bothered with them, and I turn back to Daerada, allowing the burden of the conversation to fall on poor ‘Ro.

“Ah, then that would be why it was your brother that came to us, that went on the Quest for Ada,” he says, and I think he also must have drunk well this night, for he does not sense the coldness, he continues, “he is a good fighter – so much older than he, you must be proud of him? did you train him when he was young?” he laughs, “ we were forever trying to teach Arwen things Ada did not see any reason for her to learn. She is good with a sword, though not so skilled as we – less practise you know – but I think – I am ashamed to say – she could outride either of us,” he frowns, “though I suppose that may have to stop soon – if they decide to – to have an elfling.”

The brothers, almost as one, answer 

“We certainly did not train him – we had better things to do than to spend time on one so – foolish. And we are not proud of him, not of the way he fights with bow and knives like a Silvan, no Sindar pride in him, and not of the way he behaves. He was born to break Naneth’s heart, and he seems to be doing his best to send Ada to Mandos from grief as well.”

Maybe I have drunk too deep, but I cannot think of any reason why – oh. Yes. The scandal with the dwarf.

I shrug, seeing that ‘Ro is lost for words,

“But – for all that – he is your little brother. It is not easy – we know – it is not pleasant to see them throw themselves away on a mortal – but, what can we do?” I sigh, “And it is not as though there is the time to hold a grudge for it. Men, dwarves, their lives are so short – and who knows what will become of the elves that love them? They may die. Arwen says now that she will – we hope she changes her mind – what does your Legolas say?”

There is a silence, broken only by Daerada’s singing – I do not think he is following this. He is making friends with a large bottle of Dorwinion – a gift, I believe, from our guests.

Our guests who are rising, and preparing to leave.

“It is hardly to be compared,” one says, “your sister’s honourable, if misguided, choice of the fate of Luthien, and our – unelf-like, depraved brother’s – behaviour.”

“Half the year among Silvans,” one says, “living wild as they do, and half the year among – Naugrim,” he shudders at the word, and I am shocked to hear it, so long has Ada advised it be avoided for the sake of good relations, since it offends so, “Naugrim with all their filthy habits. We do not like to think of what he may do there – or whom – or how many – he does it with.”

“Kindly do not speak of him again to us – and certainly not to any of our families, should you meet. We hope to keep our shame quiet.”

And they walk out.

Daerada sings a little more, then,

“Oh, have they gone?” he asks, and when we nod, speechless still, he smiles, “good. Dreadful pair. I cannot think what Thranduil has done to end up with such horrors. One thing about Thranduil, he always had style, and a sense of – humour,” he sees our faces, “oh in the old days he did. Do not judge him on what you hear now. He grieves for his wife, his love. He cannot sit back and drown it all in wine, as I do. No fun, no relaxation, ever the hard-working ruler. Bad idea, boys, bad idea. Always have people to do the dull things for you,” he waves a bottle at us, “drink up, this is good stuff. They do know their wine, I’ll give them that.”

Half-heartedly we let him fill our glasses.

“But,” I say, “the way they spoke of Legolas – he is their brother – yet – they seemed to – not love him.”

I have – in the past – had days, well, hours, when I have disliked my sister. I suppose, if I thought hard, there may have been times when I was not – well – not the absolute best of friends with ‘Ro. But to cease loving them – no. Never. I could never find it in me to speak of either of them like that.

That was not hot anger, that was cold disdain. A settled, certain dislike and contempt.

Our eyes meet, and we feel guilt – were we always as pleasant to Legolas as we could have been?

Probably not.

We did not know him.

We did not notice him much.

We may – may?, we did – have teased him a bit.

It was so easy.

We meant no harm.

He is a very quiet, self-effacing elf.

It occurs to me – to us, by ‘Ro’s face – that if that was what he grew up hearing, he may have become so in self-defence.

“Born to break Naneth’s heart.” I wonder how old he was the first time they said that to him?

Daerada looks at us,

“Upset, aren’t you?” he says, not, suddenly, as drunk as he was earlier. “Yes. It is not nice when families fall out. Remember that. You are lucky. For all your mother’s grief, she never stopped loving you or your father – and nor did he her. They will be together now, reunited. Have some pity for those who are not so fortunate.”

Our eyes drop, and I for one am thinking with shame of the things we have said and done.

 

 

 

When we comb that evening, I raise the subject. I ask him if he remembers how we behaved – if he thinks we did wrong.

“We did not offer to comb with him,” I say, “we knew he was alone, among not-elves for so long, and we did not offer – we did not even speak to him and say we could not, we were vowed. It might have been kinder.”

I feel his remorse in his hands, he swallows, and I know he is thinking as I am of our little sister. How, when she was away from home – or when we were away from home – if our parents were not combing, she was never left alone. Always there were Galadhrim here, or elves in Imladris – always all three of us have been surrounded by those who care. 

“He – he must have had combing from – from the elves at home,” ‘Ro begins, but I say,

“Silvans. How do we know what it is like in such a kingdom? They may – but it may have been – difficult at times. He a prince, Sindar. I do not think it is quite like home where all are of equal worth even if of different estate. But that is not the point, ‘Ro. We – we were not very nice.”

He looks at me, and I raise my hands to comb him in my turn,

“You are thinking of all those feasts, are you not, tor-nin?” he asks, and I nod, helplessly ashamed of our jests.

“We said such things – to him – and to that dwarf – do you think – were they already in love, combing? Or – or did we make mischief?”

He shrugs,

“How would I know? But – if they were not – and it was you who was so certain they must be – like in that dreadful book – what was it called? ‘The Fletcher and the Miner’, that was it,” and I break in to chant the subtitle, all those books had subtitles, 

“ – comfort me with your hard axe – “

we giggle helplessly, as usual, then he continues, “– you said they were. The way they shared that horse – they shared rooms even when there was no need – you thought – and then he danced – and he looked so – so – “

But we are elves. 

We have not really the words for how he looked.

“Yes,” I say. And then I add, “But – it has worked out well enough. We saw them. Do you not remember – last spring, it must be, or is it more – I lose track of time – they were together,” I blush, and as I speak, he colours also, “very together. Quite – excessively so.”

“And he danced,”  
“in front of Arwen,”  
“as though – well – “  
“yes. And so we said –“  
“- we told that Silvan to stop him,”  
“and he was so rude.”

“Yes.” I have not actually told him what the Silvan said. I know my dear ‘Ro, my dearest of all elves, and he – he is not one to control his temper. Oh, everyone thinks it is I, hot-head as I am known for being – but when I need, I can. He – he is slow to anger, but when he does – it is far worse than ever I am, and burns far longer.

I tell myself again, the Silvan probably did not know who I was. Or if he did, he forgot – as others do – why such an insult is so much worse to us.

‘Go kiss an orc’ is a usual phrase. When we were young – before Naneth left – we would have spoken so.

Not now.

Anyway.

“That was not Legolas’ fault,” I say, and we wonder again – were we crueller than we knew?

 

 

 

It is the sort of dilemma that we have always taken to Ada. But now we cannot.

At first, he wants to go to Erestor – and often, I would agree – Erestor is clever. He knows things, and people, and what is right to do.

But – he is an elf. 

When we read – those books – Ada was cross. He said – we must not speak of such things to elves. 

That elves do not speak of such things.

That if we did, we would convince people that we – were not elves. Had chosen mortality.

I think Erestor would not – but – what if he did?

Or if someone heard?

Ada was so very, very angry. He used words I never – we never – caused him to use before. Words like ashamed, disgrace, glad your mother is not here to see this day. And for all I wanted to say – they are your books, Ada, why are you allowed them if we are not – we did not have the courage.

We slunk away.

We barely manage to speak of such things even now, even between ourselves.

We talk a long while – not of that – but of what we should do. What can we do? In the end, we decide perhaps we should go to Eryn Lasgalen.

We could see those princes again before we go, try and gauge what to say, what to do. But – if Legolas is cast off by his family – that is not right. Not elf-like.

Ada would say we should try to do something.

Glorfindel was made welcome there during the War.

Ada and Glorfindel, and Erestor, when he is in the mood, all have spoken of the days when they knew Thranduil. Of how he could be.

Of the love between him and his wife.

Ada would be proud if we made something right.

 

 

 

I was right, I think, as we are led before the throne.

It is very different here to home.

And, a small voice I thought I had heard the last of many years ago whispers in my mind, I want to go home.

Not Imladris as it is now, but home. When Ada and Naneth ruled together, and Glorfindel was happy, and Arwen was our little sister and no more, and Rangers were simply vague mortal kinsfolk who visited from time to time. 

I have to stop myself reaching for ‘Ro’s hand. He is all I have left now, and I all he has. No wonder I love him so, and he me. No wonder we comb, and sing, and vow, and no place for another beside either of us.

Erestor also has not changed, I tell myself, but it is a lie. At least, he has not changed but – Erestor would not show a change were the world crumbling about him. It is not much comfort to know he remains.

This though – if this is where those princes grew up, no, I remember, Ada saying once that the elder two grew up away from the palace, their father was not king then – if this is where Legolas grew up – well. No wonder he is at home among dwarves in their dark halls, that is all I can think.

No wonder he is so – quiet.

The King looks at us, disdainful, no sign of welcome, and speaks,

“Sons of Elrond, what do you here?”

Ah. Well. I look blankly at ‘Ro, hoping he has a reason, an excuse, something.

He does not.

“Lord King,” I say, hoping this will do, “we thought – we were journeying past your wood – we had never seen its splendours.”

From the raised eyebrow, this is not enough, so I add,

“We thought – we thought you might value news of your son, for when we dined with him at the table of our sister the Queen, we understood it was many months since he left your realm.”

I don’t think that saying – we thought you might like to know what horrors your older sons are, and how unkind they are about your youngest, and – and we wanted to make amends to him if we can by – by praising him to you – saying that would not be wise.

From the expression on his face, I may as well have.

He makes a gesture of dismissal,

“Arasfaron,” he says, “see that the lords Elrondiron are comfortably housed. I will speak with them after the evening meal.”

And we are led away.

Arasfaron is not one to talk, we find. We ask a little, but no. He does not know how long it is since Legolas was here or sent word. He does not think there is anything much we need see while we are here. He does not know how long we may stay – that is a matter for the King. He does not remember Glorfindel well from his days here in the War – and that must be a lie, we decide, none could forget Glorfindel. It is not possible. 

We are shown a room.

It is pleasant, it has all we could need.

It is clear we are to stay until called for.

He shuts the door behind him.

We wait a little, and then open it. Pleased as we are to find it is not locked, we are dismayed to find a pair of elves sitting – no, squatting – against the opposite wall. They look up at us, easily, lazily, and one asks if there is anything we require.

Clearly they are to keep an eye on us.

We shake our heads, and shut the door again.

We comb, and go over once more what we think needs be said.

 

 

 

The evening meal is very formal.

We are pleasantly surprised by the food, which is good, and the company, which is better. These Silvans are charming. Apart from the ever-silent Arasfaron.

The wine is superb.

We are careful not to drink much.

After the meal, we are led to – I suppose – a private audience chamber. We are not encouraged to sit.

We stand, and look at the King, who lounges comfortably in front of us.

There are still elves in attendance.

We wait, assuming they will go.

When they do not, I speak,

“Lord King,” I say, “we would speak to you – but – we would ask that you hear us in privacy. We have things we would say – not to Thranduil, King of the Forest Realm, but to Thranduil, father of three sons.”

For a moment there is a flicker of pain across his face, and I cannot think why – surely he has not renounced Legolas – proclaimed him not a son?

Ro is quicker than I to understand,

“Three sons we have met,” he corrects my words, “we understand that your eldest son was one whom it would have been an honour to meet, and we grieve at your loss.”

There is silence a moment.

How had I forgot?

What a way to start, I think. Of course. He lost one son at Dagorlad. The eldest.

I forget the name now.

Another beautiful hand gesture, and the attending elves retreat. I am not convinced they leave, but they give the appearance of leaving, so that only Arasfaron and we are left with the King.

‘Ro looks towards Arasfaron, and then back to the King.

“Arasfaron hears all, repeats nothing,” he says, “say what you have come to say.”

This is not, I think, how we planned it. We did not intend for a formal setting. This was supposed to be – words over a meal. Nothing more.

We did not understand the royal protocols.

I think I am glad we are not royal.

We look at each other, and then I begin,

“You may know we fought alongside Legolas many times during the War – he is a skilled fighter – you must – at least – I do not know if you know this. He is skilled with knife and bow – he killed one of the winged beasts the Nine rode upon – he killed an oliphaunt – there are many who live who would not but for your son.”

He raises a brow, and I – I do not understand this elf. We are standing here, praising his son. You would think he would be pleased, even if it is not news to him.

“He not only fought well,” ‘Ro picks up, “he is skilled with words. There are many Men – lands of Men – who now think better of elves than they did, because of him. And – and that is not to mention the ties he builds with the dwarves of Erebor and their colony.”

No. Perhaps better not to mention that.

“Daernaneth, Ada, they were full of praise for him, before they sailed,” I try, but our words are falling like stones into an empty well, faint echoes chiming as they rattle away to nothing.

We look at each other, and we do not know what more to say.

We dare not criticise his other sons.

Our silence goes on so long, he makes a gesture of dismissal, and we feel Arasfaron come up behind us, ready to lead us away, and we know, we can tell, we are not welcome here, we must leave in the morning – this is our only chance. We have done so ill, and Ada – Ada would not be impressed.

As we are led away, I turn, and impulsively, I say,

“Lord King, we saw our father lose his daughter to mortality, we saw his grief even though they were ever close, no words misspoken between them. Your son – please Lord, do not let pride blind you to his worth. He – he is a son to be proud of, and – and the dwarf is – is a warrior, a lord of worthy renown.”

For an instant I think I see something – something alive in his face – but no. It shuts down, and we are firmly led away.

Arasfaron does not speak until we are at the door of our room. Then he looks from one to the other of us,

“Important you may think yourselves, peredhel, but know this. You are lucky none but I heard your words tonight. If you speak to any others in this kingdom as you did then – you would not leave here. My lord the King will hear no slander against his son, no loose talk,” he pauses, and then, “you will be shown to the edge of the Forest tomorrow.”

We spend the night combing, and singing quietly together. 

There is no rest, no peace here.

We have not helped.

We may have made matters worse.

 

 

 

Next time we go to Imladris, we barely see Glorfindel. 

He is there when we arrive, but – all is not well. We do not know why. He is angry, restless, complaining and impatient over everything. 

We try to tell him of – of nothing much – but he is not interested, he will not listen, will not laugh and talk with us.

He shouts at Erestor – Erestor – we hear him more than once.

We see Erestor trying to continue as though all is well, working, busy, courteous as ever, and we hear Glorfindel blaming him for everything that is not perfect, or that is simply not as he would have it.

We do not know what to do.

We are lords of this valley, in name at least – but what can we do? We can hardly tell either of them to leave, to keep his temper. 

I go to Glorfindel as he is in the armoury, I try to ask what is wrong, why he is so unhappy, is it that he wishes to sail, to go home at last after all the long years? 

He looks at me, breathing heavily, and shakes his head, his mouth working as though he is trying not to weep.

I want – I want to reach out and hold him – but he is Glorfindel – he was our tutor, he is a hero – he is not someone you can gather into your arms to comfort, as I have held Lindir while he wept for love unreturned.

Poor Lindir, I spare a moment to think, I wonder if Valinor is a pleasure to him. I suppose he will rejoice to see Ada happy once more.

But Glorfindel – I am still trying to gather the courage to embrace him, as I think he must perhaps need, when he walks away, and I am left to watch him bid a cold and cruel farewell to Erestor and ride out.

Erestor is not to be found for several hours.

Next day, he tells us he would be grateful if we were gone before Glorfindel returns.

“Do not think I am ungrateful for your visit,” he says, “it is simply – he will not be able to bear that you saw him like that. He will come back cheerful, and all must be well then.”

We look at each other, and then at him, and ‘Ro has the courage to say,

“Is he like this often?”

Erestor laughs, 

“Oh you know Glorfindel,” he says, “he has his days like this, and then he will kill some orcs, or whatever he does, and then – then he will come back and all will be well.”

We look at him silently, until he adds, 

“For a while.”

We wait, and then,

“Leave it, boys,” he says, “do not ask, just – just leave us be for a – a while longer.”

And he turns, and walks away, unable to meet our eyes, unable to control his voice.

It is as though the world is ending, for Erestor to behave so.

 

 

 

We ride away next day, and – and we are glad we have each other.

He is all I have.

He is the one constant in my world.

I love him.

He loves me.

And every day I thank Eru for the gift of my brother.

 

 

 

Without discussing it, we know where to go. There is only one other who might understand how we feel, only one who might have an idea of what to do.

She probably will not, no more than we do, but who else to ask?

Ada is gone.

Naneth is gone.

Daernaneth is gone.

Daerada is – drunken.

We go to our sister.

 

 

 

It is not until the third day that we have chance to sit and pour out our worry to her. We do not bother to speak of the royal family of Eryn Lasgalen – what is the point – she knows a little, we know more – it is not a happy story – and we do not think the reminders that they may lose one to mortality even as we will would be helpful.

Instead we speak of Glorfindel, of Erestor, of home, and how all is not well there.

“Do you know what is wrong?” she asks, and we look at each other.

“Not exactly,” I say, “at least – they are vowed now, but – but still – Erestor watches him as though – as though he waits for something more.”

“And Glorfindel – Glorfindel looks at Erestor – sometimes – when Erestor is not looking at him – as though – as though he is Daerada looking at a bottle of wine someone has told him he must not drink,” ‘Ro adds.

Yes.

I had not thought of it like that. But – he is right.

We look at each other, and then at our sister.

She is looking carefully at the ground,

“Is that all?” she asks, “can you think of anything else?”

“They do love,” I say, “I am sure of it. They – they finish sentences, they share things – they know what the other looks for without being told.”

“Yes,” she sighs, “but they have been doing that for centuries. Long before Naneth went, even.”

‘Ro shakes his head, lost for anything else to say.

I am still forming the idea in my head, still struggling with the thought that has come to me, but, if I cannot share it with these two – who can I talk to? ‘Ro is – the other half of me, and Arwen – well. She is married to a mortal. She has many mortal friends. It may not shock her so much.

“I – I wondered – is it possible – but – afterwards – could they – do elves – I – Arwen – you know how – how,” I feel my ears flush, this is not something one is supposed to speak of, we were told never to speak of it, but – she is our sister, she is married, to a mortal, it must be allowed – and besides, they are her husband’s friends, “how Legolas and Gimli are – are vowed. And – do – things,” I fall silent, biting my lip in shame at speaking of the ways of mortals, but – Arwen – is – she is – she is giggling.

“Things,” she says, “well, yes. Not from observation, you understand, but – yes. I know they do – things. What – oh. Oh. You think – no. Surely not.”

I am looking at her in disbelief – she does not seem horrified, merely – amused. ‘Ro looks from one to the other of us, not understanding.

“Things?” he says, and I blush more.

“Like – oh – like ‘The Fletcher and the Miner’,” I say, and automatically he joins in with,

“- comfort me with your hard axe –“ but as we laugh, we stop, and look at our little sister – our little sister who also knows the subtitle.

She shrugs again,

“You are not the only ones who can read, you know.”

It seems most unfair that she never was shouted at, she was never in trouble for it. We think this, and as our eyes meet, we silently acknowledge that – she was always better at not being found out.

‘Ro shakes his head, and then,

“But – ‘Dan – you think – you think they are – doing that?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “but if they are – Glorfindel might – might be embarrassed about it. Might not want us to know. That might be why Erestor wanted us to leave. Maybe?”

Involuntarily, we both look at Arwen, acknowledging she knows more of these matters than we do. Head down, she is thinking.

“I don’t see why,” she says slowly, “why that would make him angry. Not with Erestor. And – and what you said, ‘Ro, about the wine – no. I think – I think maybe – they each want – or almost want – or could want – but – cannot speak of it.”

We are silent.

Thinking.

“Yes,” I say, “that would fit. Glorfindel – is not good at waiting for anything. Or going without something he wants. And Erestor – is too patient. He will not ask. Ever. He always waits.”

We are all silent once more, sad for the two who are – not parents – but – uncles perhaps – to us. It is ‘Ro who voices our thoughts,

“What can we do? Should we say something? I don’t think I could though. What if we are wrong?”

“What if we are right,” I say, “and they start – kissing – or something – when we are there? Yuck.”

Arwen giggles again.

She is not being very helpful.

“I could write to them,” she says, “but – even if I use the King’s Messengers – there is the chance someone else reads it,” she thinks a moment, then, “especially if I use the Messengers and it arrives a day they are not about. That would be dreadful. You – you two will have to speak next time you are there.”

“No,” I say, “I cannot. I cannot. Ask them here, and you say something.”

She looks at the ground,

“They will not come,” she whispers. “Erestor said – the city is too like Gondolin. It upsets Glorfindel.”

We exchange glances,

“It is nothing like Gondolin,” I say, remembering old lessons,

“that is rubbish,” he adds.

For a moment we are silent once more, trying to understand the lie, then

“It was at the wedding,” she says, “when there was so much – drinking – and – and so many – couples. Erestor said that was why they were leaving early. They were giving out it was to arrange things ready for Ada to come home to, but it wasn’t. One of them – Glorfindel I suppose – must have been – finding it too hard to watch other people in love doing – things.”

“Kissing,” ‘Ro helpfully supplies.

“I am not saying it aloud to them,” I repeat. 

Arwen sighs,

“Then give them each a book from Ada’s collection, and let them work it out,” she says, “although which ones, I do not know.”

“Not ‘The Fletcher and the Miner’,” ‘Ro says immediately, “or one of them will head off for Erebor and the other will be devastated.”

“Well, not ‘Flames of Passion’,” Arwen says, and we dutifully chorus,

“- whip me into a frenzy of desire – “

“It would hardly put Glorfindel in the mood, I think.”

“Not ‘Swept away’,” I retort, “you got that one sticky, ‘Ro.”

“I couldn’t help it,” he says, “it was partly your fault, you were holding the book, you might have realised it would go there – “

Arwen is looking from one to the other of us,

“Toren-nin, too much information,” she says, “please. I do not want to know what you were doing –“

I shrug,

“Only eating honey-cakes,” I say, “while we were reading in bed. You do it – you used to do it – all the time. Naneth used to get cross with you.”

“Oh,” she says, “oh. I thought – I – that you – you two – were – well. Doing – things.”

If ‘Ro’s face is anything to go by, my eyes are round with horror.

“No,” he squeaks, “sweet Eru, Arwen, we are brothers.”

“Brothers,” I say, squeaking also, “what do you – I don’t think mortals have been good for you.”

“That is – awful,” he says, “I – no.”

She looks from one to the other of us,

“Sorry,” she says, after a moment, “I just assumed – you are so – close.”

“We are vowed,” I say, haughtily.

“As combmates,” he adds.

“We are elves,” we both say, “we do not look for more.”

Anyway.

It is agreed. 

We will simply take as many of the books as we can, and divide them between their rooms. No need to speak, we will just – let them work it out.

 

 

 

But when next we go to Imladris – and I admit we do not hurry – we are both – shy – of doing such a thing – we find it is unnecessary.

We ride into the Valley, and it is – as it has not been for years. Full of flowers, and life, and beauty. 

The House glows.

For a moment, I think we have gone back in time. That Ada and Naneth will come out to welcome us, that our little sister will be tumbling about somewhere.

I look at ‘Ro, and I see he feels the same.

“Sweet Eru,” he says, “what has happened here?”

At first we do not realise, we do not know. We can only wander the gardens in wonder and happiness to see home as it should be.

Then we begin to realise.

We see them together, see how they touch – not shockingly, nothing too – yucky. Just – something in the way a hand trails over a shoulder, the way one leans into a caress, the way their eyes meet.

The way they – and I do not like the thought – the way they do not wish to sit up late drinking, but instead are away to their room – just one room now – and – I suppose – combing. Or doing – things.

We suspect all is well.

No. Clearly all is well – and more than well. The Valley blooms, the House sings, the air is – content. Glorfindel looks more golden than I have ever seen him look – for the first time, I can truly see, perhaps, a glimpse of the splendour that persuaded the Valar to send him back. 

Erestor – seems unchanged.

Until you look at his eyes. Then – there is a contentment, a peace there that I have not seen these many years.

I cannot imagine how that – that kind of – thing – can make them both so happy. I cannot see what it could add to the combing they already shared, as we do.

One day I notice the books – those particular books – have been rearranged in the library. So – it is not just Erestor who has read them then. He would have put them back perfectly in order.

At least, I think he would.

Maybe not.

Not if he was – distracted.

There is an afternoon, we are in the garden, sitting among Naneth’s roses, telling them of her, as you do, when we realise – we are very close to the terrace next to their room.

They are there.

We look up, and – and I wish we had not seen.

They are standing, looking at each other, and that is as love is, that is much as we look when we are alone. They must be holding hands, but then, Erestor raises his hands to Glorfindel’s ears, and he returns the gesture.

Even then, that is sweet to see. A little private, but – rather lovely.

Then Glorfindel says something – and I cannot hear what – and then – then they are kissing. Properly. 

No, not properly. Not the way they should kiss, the way we kiss.

They are – devouring each other. Lost in each other.

Hands move from ears to hair – and – and it is the first time in all these years I have seen Erestor unbound. I had never realised how dark his hair, how much there is of it, until I see Glorfindel’s hands – large hands, hands that taught us to hold reins and wield weapons – card through it, lost in the mass of darkness. We have seen Glorfindel unbound, of course, we have combed with him when we rode out under his command, but – somehow – to see the golden mass fall forward and tangle with Erestor’s locks seems – different.

We should not be watching. 

We know we should not.

But – we know how Glorfindel will pick up any movement, any possible danger, and we stay motionless, unable to look away, unable not to see.

I have never seen Erestor’s hands so busy. He is usually one to be very still, very calm. Not like this, apparently, he grasps, and pulls at hair, and strokes, and – and it is shocking somehow. More than to see Glorfindel give in to it, to see, when he raises his head, to breathe I suppose, to see the look of absolute abandon and bliss on his face. Glorfindel is always one to do everything to the utmost. But to see Erestor, calm, collected Erestor, our rock, our unchanging reliable one, so – so urgent, so given over to – to passion I suppose – is as though the world trembles again.

To see Erestor kneel – and as he sinks down graceful as ever, his hands work open Glorfindel’s tunic, and travel down and – and – and suddenly we realise what he must be doing – and we should not be here, we should not see this, should not be able to watch the expression on our Seneschal’s face as he – he closes his eyes, and sings aloud. But we cannot move still, we dare not, we know him too well – he is never without a knife to hand, his aim is good, his reactions fast – for a moment I think ‘Ro will move, so desperate are we not to see this, but I clutch at his hand, and he stills, agreeing without words that the one thing we must not do is draw attention to ourselves.

Then Glorfindel blinks, and moves his hands, and pulls Erestor to his feet, and – and we have never seen any look like this – and to see Erestor – Erestor of all elves – go into his arms so easily, kiss so urgently, see him so – so – dishevelled, blinded with need, unfocused and clinging – it is the end of our childhood. 

And I thought we had become adults years ago, but now – now I realise we had not. We have always thought of Erestor as beyond all strong emotion, as truly reliable.

But if he is not – then there is none who is.

Glorfindel – and I do not know why we cannot look away, but we cannot – Glorfindel moves a little and kisses Erestor’s neck. At least it starts as a kiss. But that – that looks more like – like biting. And – that must hurt – surely – but Erestor is clinging to him and – their songs – are rising louder, and in harmony closer and more – entwined than I have heard them before. Then Glorfindel – you forget how strong he is – he lifts Erestor, easily, and carries him in through the door, and – and their songs – are so – very – beautiful.

Until they stop singing.

And I did not want to hear that.

It is funny to read, but when you hear – it is not.

It is – in all honesty – it is a bit – frightening. 

Too much like battle-noises. Too much like – like screams and cries for help and grunts of effort – and – and we do not like to hear it.

Besides, they probably would not want us to.

We get up and go away.

“I think they worked it out,” I say, and ‘Ro nods.

Later, he tells me he has spoken to Erestor, and indeed all is now well. 

I do not know how he could. I could barely look at them at dinner. 

Or for the rest of our stay.

And when Erestor’s collar slips, and the purple bites show – I cannot stay in the room. I feel – sick.

I am happy they are so happy.

But I cannot – we cannot – understand how that – those – things – could make them so.

We are happy for them.

But we do not stay too long.

It does not feel like home anymore.

It is theirs now.

I am glad I have my brother with me as we journey on, endlessly.

 

 

 

We seem to have many places we are welcome, nowhere we belong.

Arwen is always pleased to see us – but – absently so. We do not understand her life, her concerns.

We adore our nephew – but – he grows so fast. 

Soon – it seems soon to us – he is – not older than us, but – speaking of being a Man, of marrying, settling, making plans.

Plans for when he rules. 

It is the normal course of things, it does not distress him – at least – not much. 

He treats us as – as though we were his nephews, we realise. He is pleasant, friendly, but – he cares little for us, and seems to think us – young and foolish. Certainly we look younger than he, and always will, certainly we never planned all the ways we would change our Father’s Valley when he left. Certainly we never wanted to rule, as he is so eager.

We find we have little meeting of minds. Little – none.

We were never allowed to comb him when he was little – and now – we see it is not important to him. His hair means nothing to him, it is just hair.

He keeps it short for ease. He does not let it find its own natural length and stay there.

He does not even seem to wash or tidy it much.

He is more his father’s son than his mother’s, we think.

Until the day that Arwen – our little Arwen – announces she may cut her hair. Tidy it up, she says. Make it more – seemly – for a Queen who is no longer young.

As mortal women do.

We feel – sick.

We do not say anything, though we suppose she knows – she must know – how we feel. 

But that night we cling together, and we weep, and – and oh my brother, my brother, you are all I have, and I am yours, and – and there is no comfort anywhere else, no-one else, and I love you, I love you, I love you, and our songs join, as they ever have, we comb together, your hands in my hair, my hands in yours, as it has ever been for us, and for a time, a little time, all is well.

She does not cut her hair, not now; she says, laughing, that Elessar does not wish her to do so. 

She speaks as though it matters little.

We begin to understand we have truly lost her.

And we again thank Eru for the gift of each other.

 

 

We do not repeat our mistake, do not go to Eryn Lasgalen again.

We dare not go to Ithilien.

We cannot shake the memory of the hatred in the eyes and voice of that Silvan.

We encounter Legolas – and his dwarf – at our sister’s court, from time to time, but – he does not speak to us. We try – we try to say to him how we did not mean him harm, we did not know – but he does not hear, does not listen.

He is happy, so we suppose we did nothing so very bad – at least, we were fortunate it turned out that way.

 

 

 

We go to Lorien. 

Daerada is always pleased to see us. He loves us.

He does not change. 

At least, not much. He is always drunk, always cheerful in his own way, always reckless.

One day he turns to us, and says, 

“I am leaving,” and we must look as bereft as we feel, for he hastily adds, “not sailing, no, I said I would stay, go West only with you, but – I cannot remain here alone any longer. I need to – be somewhere your Daernaneth was not. I intend to go to Imladris, to await the time to sail. You would not mind, I assume.”

We stutter something, because – no, we do not mind, but – but it is not really ours anymore. We do not go there much. It is the realm of the two who rule – and we do not know whether we should explain how things are, or if it is best not. 

“Glorfindel – the lord Glorfindel – and Erestor – they rule there,” ‘Ro says, and at the questioning glance continues, “Daerada, we do not, we never have. You know this. And – and we do not mind. We do not want to rule, we never did. They are good at it. But – but many things are different –“ he looks at me, as though I might have the words.

“Not – not many things,” I say, “simply – they – Daerada, they – they are – married. As though married.”

We look at him, wondering if he understands. He looks from one to the other of us, and then shrugs,

“I am hardly surprised to hear that they are vowed. It has been a long time since I told your father they would end up that way.”

We look at each other again, and try once more,

“No,” ‘Ro says, “at least, yes, but – not just that – they – they are as though married, Daerada.”

“They – they share a room – a bed,” I try, thinking – I do not know how else to say this.

He simply shrugs,

“Well, Glorfindel will have reverted to old ways, I suppose,” and for a moment we are silent, wondering what he can mean, what do we not know of the First or Second Age? Were such things then common among elves? But he continues, “Gondolin was a practical city. There were strict rules – none should claim a room they did not need. But I am surprised Erestor has gone along with it – I would have thought he was one to value his own space,” he laughs, “no, I know Erestor. I wager they may have one chamber for reverie, but they will have separate work-spaces.”

We nod helplessly, and fail to say more.

Perhaps he will not realise, we think, perhaps he does not need to know. It is not as though they asked – or even permitted – us to tell anyone.

But we do not ride to Imladris with Daerada.

We stay in Lorien.

 

 

 

 

The letter reaches us there.

It comes to me – as the elder – and because ‘Ro is busy. Well, he calls it busy, he calls it training with the Galadhrim.

I call it – playing around with some like-minded idiots. 

Playing – who can annoy the Sindar most.

And I suspect it is the sort of game Ada would not approve, would tell us to stop, that we are too old. 

To be honest, a few years ago – I would have been the same. But somehow – somehow – after realising how much damage we might have done by our words to Legolas, to his dwarf – I have not the heart for such foolishness, such teasing. 

‘Ro thinks I am ridiculous to withdraw so, and we have had to try very hard indeed not to argue over it.

We do not argue. 

We never have, and we are not going to start now.

But – we each wish the other would give in.

I agree with him, about the Sindar, for what it is worth. They are, as Daerada said, horrors. 

However.

The letter from Imladris comes, and I open it. I do not know what I am expecting – nothing much – perhaps a list of who has sailed, who has married, and so on.

Instead – I find – it is a heartfelt plea to us to come home. 

At first, I think Daerada must be behind it – either he is ill, sad, and wanting to see us, or he is proving such a handful that the lords would have us there to calm him. It is only as I read it again, I begin to understand that no, the words written are the words he meant.

They miss us.

Whatever the new-ness between them is – and Erestor does not deny it is there, though he is careful how he phrases it – they still love us, they still would have us feel it is our home. And I feel – guilty.

It is not an emotion elves feel often, we are not brought up to it as mortals are.

As he says, we will not wish to leave our sister when once she is alone, she will not wish to go to Imladris, she has said all along she will stay in Lorien until her end comes – and so – we should go now. See the Valley one more time.

See it as it is meant to be, golden, golden as they two are golden in their love.

He does not say that, he is Erestor, he is far too circumspect to use such words. But that is what he means.

And for the first time, I begin to feel – not only the guilt for not going, but – almost an envy for them that they are so happy.

Not that I would want that.

But – I am glad they are so happy, and there is a part of me which acknowledges perhaps it is nice to feel that way.

Not for us – we are brothers – it would be – yuck. But for them – for our sister and her husband – perhaps – perhaps it is the only way to get as close as we already are.

I had never thought that before.

 

 

 

‘Ro is not keen to go – he reminds me how difficult it was when we were last there – how odd it felt to see the Valley as it used to be – how we missed Naneth and Ada, and little Arwen. He reminds me how little I liked seeing the two of them together.

“I know,” I say, “tor-nin, I know all of it. But – we love them, do we not? we owe them something, it seems to me,” I bite my lip and then, I cannot believe I need say this, it is not like him, usually he is the more – politically astute of us, but not this time, “if we go not – Daerada will think we care not for them, that we – we dislike the changes.”

“We do,” he says, flatly.

I shrug, “We do, but – it is not the change between them we dislike. I would not have him report so to Ada. Think, think ahead,” and it is most unlike us that I need urge him to do so, “one day, Eru willing, we will reach Ada, and Naneth, and Daernaneth. And – and Daerada will be with us. As will Glorfindel and Erestor, and all those that are left there.”

I stop – surely he will see it now?

No.

He looks at me blankly, and I see in his eyes the only thought in his mind is that then – then our little sister will be dead.

Dead.

Well, it is not a thought I like.

But – I push it aside for now.

Impatiently, I sigh, “Do you not remember how Ada spoke of those books? As unelven, as – as shaming? How much welcome do you think he will have for Glorfindel and Erestor as they now are? And – if we have not been to them, have not been to the Valley – that will not help.”

I watch him think. Slowly he nods.

“We owe them support,” he says, “they have always been good to us.”

And so we leave the Sindar in peace, and we go to the place that was once Home.

 

 

 

 

It is strange. For some reason, I had expected Daerada to drink less here.

Apparently not.

“Your father had some fine wines laid down,” he says, and I think he is trying to do that human thing of winking, only he is an elf, he cannot, and we – we are not human either, it conveys nothing to us, “no point in letting Glorfindel have them all. He barely notices them as they go down,” he pauses a moment, and then adds, “on which note – it is not kind to poor Erestor to allow his warrior to be so dissolute. It is, after all, necessary for a councillor to walk from place to place.”

He sees we are carefully keeping our faces blank, refusing to acknowledge we understand him, and shrugs,

“I mean no harm – do not look so like your father. It does not suit either of you.”

We smile, tightly, and turn away.

The Lords of the Valley do not speak of the changes, for which we are thankful. They are as they ever were – only – happy. 

We meet those elves who are still here, we talk over plans to sail, we inspect the House, the parts that are already shut up, the preparations Erestor is beginning to make.

“I know there is no urgency,” he says, “but this is not a matter to be done lightly. I have given some thought also to the disposal of items we do not take – I would have you read through my notes, and authorise them – or tell me what you would different. In particular – your family pieces – those left here – will you carry them to your parents, or will your sister and her children have them?”

We shrug. Presumably if Ada left such items, he did not want them, and – and we do not care – but – one cannot say this to Erestor. ‘Ro agrees to go through the inventory with him while we are here. 

I do not want to, but – I see he is not enthusiastic either – and I agree to help.

Eru bless Erestor, he makes it fun, like old times, our impatient tutor standing over us, hastening us through the lesson with promises of treats to come – and as ever, our beloved ‘Fin is there to take us out, riding and sparring with him, hunting and swimming, after the allotted work for the day is done.

Only – we see them exchange glances, and we know we are keeping them apart. In the days we have been reliving, they were friends only, they did not comb together. Were it only a day or so, it would not matter, but – there is much here. We will be working with Erestor for time that to elves should seem nothing, but to elves newly – I have not the words – golden – will seem long.

And so one morning, I pull at ‘Fin as we leave the breakfast table, 

“Come with us,” I say, “come and tease Erestor, make the work more fun. I am outnumbered – they are too clever for me,” and he laughs, the most joyous sound I have ever heard, as it always was, and the morning is brighter, and sillier, and better than before.

And in the afternoon – Erestor joins us when ‘Fin says it is time to let cramped muscles stretch, time to ride and laugh, time to play.

Rarely have we seen Erestor ride, and never have we seen him fight.

Ada used to say he had used a sword once – I never thought it true. Now – now I see it is true and more than true.

And we see at last how well matched these two are.

 

 

 

 

The time comes, of course, when all is done, and we say farewell – and it is farewell this time. We will not come here again. 

“It is your realm, for whatever time is left,” we say, “that is, we assume you still mean to sail with us – if it be that you choose not, then – then stay you here, and be joyful. Mithlond is deserted – there are no more ships from there. We will sail the old way, the Galadhrim way, the Silvan way, down the Anduin and on.”

They watch us ride away, and we look back, as often as we can.

Daerada has gone indoors, out of the chill, he said, unlikely though that sounds, but our two – whatever they are to us – they stand and watch us ride away, until our eyes cannot see them – and I suppose they wait until even theirs cannot see us.

Brother, my brother, you are all to me, and I thank the Valar for you, that I need never fear or be alone, else this journey would be a sad one.

 

 

 

 

It seems not long after this – perhaps it is in the count of Men, but we – we have thrown in our lot with the elves now, our choice is made and irrevocable – it seems not long before we must leave Lorien once again, and go to our sister once more.

Lorien, we find, slips again. The world is – just slightly – very slightly – out of step with us there – the moon is different, the weather feels milder.

It matters not. We have not now, we think, long to wait.

Our sister is veiled in her grief, as the women of Men are accustomed to bear themselves.

We bid Elessar – Aragorn – Estel – farewell, and the brief span of his life would leave us more saddened for him were it not that he seduced and took our sister from us.

Once more we see Legolas Thranduilion, lord of Ithilien, with his dwarf at his side.

His dwarf ages – his hair and beard are grey, his movements slow – yet it seems he bears us no more forgiveness than his unchanged companion. His eyes glint with dislike as he looks at us, and his lip sneers – at least, so ‘Ro says.

I have no idea how one could tell under all that beard.

Legolas is careful not to be near us, not to speak to us, not to allow us chance to speak with him.

‘Ro seems not to care, but I know he feels as much guilt as I. It is not pleasant to be so disliked.

“He has heard the Sea calling,” he reminds me, “some day soon – very soon Arwen says – he will sail. And when we do – we will have chance to speak then, on that further shore. The tales say all wrongs will be righted, all hurts made well in that land. Besides, he will have to listen to Ada – everyone always does.”

I am doubtful.

Most people listen to Glorfindel – and Erestor can persuade any – yet – these two I know were received there – there that was once our Home – but they make it clear they like us not.

I think of how Arwen plans to follow her mortal – and I wonder if Legolas will do the same – if he will never sail. That seems to me the greatest hurt any can do an elf, yet – these mortals take their sacrifice and see not what they do. There may not be the chance to make amends for which my brother longs.

I do not say this to ‘Ro.

I wait, unusual for me, I bide my time, until a day when ‘Ro is with Arwen. I do not know what they are doing – talking, sorting out what she needs take to Lorien – I know they are not combing, not singing, as elves would do. Arwen does not comb, she does not sing.

I do not know how ‘Ro can be so patient with her.

I pace the terrace, and I feel as though I am trapped here, waiting.

“Fucks sake, peredhel,” I had not seen Thranduilion’s dwarf, and if I had I would have thought him sleeping in his dotage, “can’t you bugger off and leave this dwarf in peace? Bad enough we are, apparently, off on the bloody horse again soon, let me rest now. I am too old for all this.”

I almost turn away, then I remember Ada’s insistence on manners, and I bow, 

“I apologise, Gimli son of Gloin, lord of Aglarond,” I say, “I did not see you there. I am – distracted by my sister’s grief and fate,” and I turn away. But – I cannot help it, I cannot leave it there – I turn back, “how can you do this to him? How could Elessar do it to her?” I ask, “You say you love them, and you kill them. How is that possible?”

The dwarf looks up at me, 

“Don’t know about them,” he says, “but I – I would have my elf sail without me and live on. Daft sodding creature says he won’t,” he sighs, and I hear the age in his voice, “if he had brothers – decent brothers – loving brothers – I would send him packed up with them. But he only has retainers – loving – but – they cannot go against his wishes. His brothers – “ he spits.

I smile, for what seems the first time in a long while, 

“Yes,” I say, “they are in Lorien. We have had many more evenings with them than we wished,” then – I think I had best say this now, “we tried to – to make amends,” I say, “we went to the Forest – we tried to tell the King of – of Legolas’ skills – we tried to speak of – of making amends before he was lost to mortality – to love. I think we did not help – but – we tried. We – we did not know. All those years ago – when we teased you both – we did not understand.”

He looks at me, and I see he is no fool,

“And then you thought you did?” he asks.

I shrug,

“Not really,” I say, “but – we met his brothers. I – I would not have you think all elves are like that.”

He laughs, and shoos me away,

“Fool,” he says, and for a moment it is comforting to be spoken to thus, “I have met enough other elves. My elf made peace with his bloody father – which was all that could be hoped for. You did no damage. Go fuss over your sister, and leave me to sleep.”

I bow, and begin to walk away.

“Elladan,” he calls, and I am impressed he knows my name, “I thank you for your words.”

I dip my head in acknowledgement, and keep walking.

Mortals, I think, he may speak of caring for his elf – but – he will kill him all the same. And they call it love.

Brother, oh my brother, I am glad of you, for you are everything to me, and never shall I be apart from you.

 

 

 

 

We ride to Lorien.

Our sister does not sing, she does not comb, she does not speak much.

She does not unveil herself.

We assume it is because we are still in the lands of Men, she is perhaps still their Queen – we are not quite sure. 

As ever, it is the obnoxious Haldir who greets us – and I must no longer call him that, ‘Ro and he have become friends in their teasing of Sindar – and leads us – as though we do not know the way – to a place where we can be together, the three of us, as it always was, and as it is no longer.

For days, our sister is quiet, and sad, and drifts about.

We do not know what to do, how to help.

She will not come to us for combing, she seems not to understand our song.

 

 

 

 

The Sindar come – I think they mean to be courteous – with soft words of grief, of respect for the departed upon their lying tongues.

We find we prefer the silence of Legolas, or the chill honesty of their father.

The Galadhrim come with kindness, with offers of song, or wine, or sweet fruits. 

We thank them, and accept enough of their gifts that they feel not slighted.

The Silvans – for there are, it seems, a few Silvans here now, come to be with their Sindar – come with – knowledge of grief in their eyes, and gifts of fresh meat or fish, for fasting is no way to heal from loss they say. 

We thank them, and wonder if there is yet hope that she may heal, and change her mind, and sail with us.

Time passes.

 

 

 

One day – and I do not know how long it has been – Haldir comes to us, and says – we have a visitor, a guest – will he bring him to us?

Of course.

It is Glorfindel.

For a moment, we look at each other, we are afraid, but – he does not look sad,

“Is all well with you?” I ask, I cannot find words to ask what we both fear, but he is no fool, often though he plays the part,

“With me, and with my Erestor,” he says, smiling even at the sound of the name, “and with the Valley, and indeed with the lord Celeborn. Erestor does not like to leave – you know how he is – nothing will be done right if he is not there to do it. So he says,” he shrugs, “and besides, I travel faster alone. We simply – felt it was right to send someone to see if all is – as well as can be expected with you.”

We nod, confused, and waiting for more.

“Time passes out there,” he says, “your grandfather wishes to sail – has always wished to sail – yet feels he must stay for you two. We have said he needs not, we plan to sail, we can take care of you,” he holds up a hand and smiles, “yes, I know, I know, but allow old elves their folly. I am simply – seeing how things are.”

From under her veiling, our sister glares at him, 

“You mean,” she growls, “you are sent to see how much longer Arwen will take to do the right thing.”

‘Ro and I cringe, for all the times we have ourselves wondered – how long will this grief last? 

Glorfindel looks at her,

“I can barely see you,” he says, “take off some of those wrappers.”

I had forgotten how – blunt – he can be.

For a moment she hesitates, and looks at us, and then at him, and then – then she does. I wonder why we had never thought to ask.

Then I understand what I am seeing.

She has cut her hair short – and must have kept on doing so – for surely it would regrow in all this time. She looks from one face to another, and says 

“It is the custom. To show mourning. This is what mortals do.”

 

 

 

Into the silence, the silence of understanding, of pain, of loss, of oh my sister, my sister, you mean it, you really do, you will leave us and die, and we will never, never see you again – into this silence, our hero speaks,

“I daresay they do, penneth-nin, but – it still needs brushing out. Come here,” and I think I have never – never in all the orc-raids – been so glad of his presence.

As he brushes – brush, not comb – he tells us news, little things, of elves we know, of the Valley, the peoples nearby, of the lands he crossed to come here, of gossip. Legolas and his dwarf sailed – we thought he would, but to take a dwarf – it seems shocking. Thranduil has sailed – none know quite why, or what changed his mind – but – he went suddenly, they say, in the end.

“He will have gone to find his love,” Glorfindel says, and smiles, a smile that speaks of memory, “I remember when they met and married, so long ago.”

But we do not care much.

“But – if he has sailed,” I say, and ‘Ro catches my thought,

“Who rules his Forest?”

“Why have we still his sons here?”

Glorfindel shrugs, uncaring – it is not him who has had to put up with those Sindar all these years – and,

“Some Silvan. They are all strange. The ones in Ithilien have been odd for a long while, and they say now the Forest ones are becoming more peculiar still. They paint themselves and their hair, they wear jewels – they were always wild – did I tell you they eat the spiders? – but they become more peculiar. I would not venture there now except at direst need,” he shrugs again, “as for the sons – perhaps his Silvans do not like them any more than you. Besides, I think if Thranduil had trusted them to rule, he would have sailed many years ago.”

I daresay he is right.

Bother.

 

 

 

 

The time passes – Glorfindel drives some of it away – and we comb, we comb together, we cling to each other, brother, oh my brother, you are my world, you are my only comfort, you are the only constant in my life, and I need you, love you so.

He comes to us, we do not know how long he has been here, I do not suppose he does either, it is not a place it is easy to keep track of time. It never was, and somehow – somehow it seems harder than ever now, unless that is just that we have no more need, now that time is simply – before our sister leaves us, and then after.

“I need go home, I need go to my Erestor – he will be waiting. Boys, you know we will come when you call us, to sail West, Home,” I had forgot, to him it is partly Home, “send someone to tell us. I do not know if Celeborn will wait. I daresay if my Erestor has kept him calm this long, he will stay sensible long enough,” he pauses and looks away, then, “your sister – she is mortal. You know this. She can no longer sail. There is no point railing and complaining of injustice, all you can do is keep her company until she finds her own way to the Valar,” oh, he heard us, that night we released our anger, asked why Thranduilion may take a dwarf – a dwarf – West, but our sweet sister, Celebrianiel, could not take he who was, after all, one of the very best of Men.

We nod, and he touches our ears briefly as he departs.

 

 

 

Days, weeks, seasons pass and the years turn.

A part of me would wish to be done with this, this waiting time, this pause in our lives, a part of me cares no more for Arda, for this Wood, for these elves – a part of me now begins to long to sail.

We did not know we had that in us, but – after all, we made our choice, we are elves, through and through, and we, like Thranduilion, have been too close to the Sea.

We do not speak of it, we could not bear our sister to hear us, but – we do begin to feel this longing, aching need, we find we slip too easily into thought or song of the Sea, of the land beyond the waves, and all we can do is hope – hope that our sister does not read us, for we do not wish to hurt her.

She does not say it, but we know she would have liked our Father here now – and why, Ada, why could you not stay for her? 

Oh, we know he is with Naneth, we know he was so worried for so long, we know all that – yet – he waited all those years, could he not have seen this duty done also?

All too often at this point, we ask, why did he not take all of us with Naneth when she sailed? 

Our sister would have no need to die then.

We have not really the answer – only cold words of duty, duty, duty – and it makes no sense in our ears now, if it ever did.

 

 

 

On and on the days pass, slow, slow as the growth of an oak, slower perhaps, slow as the growth of a mountain it sometimes seems, and I daresay that in the world outside, our nephew is dead, his children old, perhaps his house failing even.

We do not ask.

It is no longer our concern.

We care only that the long slow grief of Arwen, once Evenstar, be not left unwitnessed. 

 

 

 

 

On and on the days pass, and from time to time ‘Ro still goes out with Galadhrim and still plays ‘torment the Sindar’. 

Only now, now there are more Sindar, and now there are more Galadhrim who wonder at the presence of we three, once known as the peredhel.

They do not say anything, they simply look, and the question is in their eyes, and I wonder whether the grief of Arwen will outlast the memory of Arwen’s grandmother who built this realm.

There are also more Silvans.

They – do not seem to ask what we do here. They seem – sad – themselves.

One day – and I have lost track of time – I ask one of them – except they are Silvans, they seem unable to do anything alone, you cannot talk to one Silvan, you must talk to a group of them – I ask why they seem so sad?

“This is not our Forest,” they say – and I am not going to try to remember which of them said what, or the way they talk, all of the group chiming in, and repeating, over and over, phrases that may matter, or may simply sound nice to them – they are indeed peculiar, as Glorfindel said, and I do not know whether they are worse than they used to be or not.

“This is not our Forest. The trees are – not our trees. They are lovely, but – not ours, it is not home – but – our home is changed. There are no longer Sindar there, and we – we love our Sindar, whatever – foolishness – they have committed. Too much change at home, all the time he – all the time there are changes. Yet here – is not home.”

I pity them, but what can we do?

We ask.

They – they are so – grateful that we ask. 

May they plant – encourage – some of their own trees? Not in the cleared spaces, and not where the mallorns still flourish, but – there are places, and I know they speak truly when they say it, where the mallorns are sick, retreating, and if nothing is planted then who knows what will come?

Yes, we say, of course. Bring your trees, make the Wood a place you can be happy, and welcome.

They go, singing, away down the hill, and we feel a small – thrill.

We were kind.

We said the right thing.

Ada would be proud of us.

 

 

 

 

The days pass, the seasons turn, and almost we have forgotten our conversation with the Silvans, when the Sindar come to us.

“Sons of Thranduil,” we greet them, “what do you here? Are you wroth with us?” for they seem so, and we – we find we have little patience with them, and are tempted to make gentle mockery of their style.

“By what right,” they ask, and it seems they have caught the Silvan trick of shared speech, “by what right do you tell our Silvans what they may or may not do? By what right do you decide which trees may be planted and where, within this, our Wood?”

Their impertinence – their arrogance takes my breath away, and so it is ‘Ro that answers, coolly, his head on one side, contemplating them,

“Your Silvans? Your Wood?”

And now I can speak also,

“They may serve you, but they belong to themselves. And the Wood – the Wood is Daernaneth’s and so passes to us, since our sister is not like to leave her seclusion to rule.”

The two of them look at us, silent, and hating for a long moment, but we met their father – they do not intimidate us.

I think few would, after Thranduil.

“Go and play tea-parties,” one says, “play nice boys looking after their little sister.”

“And then sail West, peredhel, before the way is closed to you,” and the other is cold in scorn, “let Sindar rule Silvans.”

This time it is I that must restrain ‘Ro, and I that asks,

“Then tell us, sons of Thranduil, which Sindar rules in his Forest now you are banished?”

And as they search for words for their anger, we walk away.

 

 

 

The days pass, the seasons turn, the new-planted trees grow – and very nice they are, if you like trees.

We like trees, but – not as Silvans like trees.

They sing to them.

We hear them.

And our sister – our little sister – our little Arwen – hears their song, and says,

“It seems strange now, to think that they may never have sung that before, yet all know the words to sing. That voices can rise in harmony together, each knowing the notes, the pattern with little or no practise.”

We know as well as she that elves do practise, elves compose their songs and music – why else would one like Lindir be created – but – not for such a simple, spontaneous song as this. The music is there already.

But our sweet sister can no longer hear it.

We try to find words, to speak of other things, to turn from these thoughts, but – when she sleeps – and now she sleeps with eyes closed, we see, and we wonder how long that has been so – we go a little way apart together, and we sing very soft, and comb, and – and oh my brother, my brother, truly you are everything to me, and I to you, and – how I need you, how I love you, what would I be without you?

It seems to me a good thing that Eru saw fit to create us as one in two, not one alone. I do not think I could live these years without my dear one, my brother, my other half of my soul at my side.

 

 

 

 

The years pass, and it seems suddenly that they begin to pass quickly, the world turns, and – and I want it to stop.

No.

I want – what I really want – is for the world to go back, to return to the days when we were young, and Naneth and Ada ruled together, and loved, and Arwen was our funny little sister, and – and all was well.

I cannot have that.

I cannot have the three of us sail, and find our parents once more, and all be well.

So – I wish the world would slow.

So many years have we waited, ‘Ro and I.

We waited to be of age, waited to be allowed out of the Valley and away on adventures.

We waited to understand what we would choose – mortality or the life of elves.

We waited to fall in love, as elves expect to do, irrevocably, completely, expecting to marry, to have elflings.

And then – we waited to meet a warrior who would sing us off our feet, who we would vow to, each of us to our own.

Then we understood we had no need to wait. We were complete together, we needed no other.

And so – we waited for adventure, excitement.

Then it came, and it was not as we had hoped.

We waited for revenge.

We waited for justice to be served.

We waited to sail.

We waited for the world to be saved and all to be made well.

We waited for Ada to go, to send him to Naneth that we not have to bear the tidings of our sister’s fate.

We waited for Glorfindel and Erestor to make sense of themselves.

We waited for Estel – Elessar to die.

We wait now for our sister.

And – I do not want to lose her – but at the same time, I long to be done with waiting.

Yet – I want the world to stop, to stay in these days, years of waiting. For when it is over – we shall never see her again.

 

 

 

One night, we drink too deep. ‘Ro has been out with the Galadhrim, I do not know what he was doing, I do not wish to – I will not argue with my brother.

He stumbles back, laughing and smelling of their wine, their – whatever it is they brew here that is so strong, that leaves one with no control, no inhibitions, and he throws himself down on the flet beside us.

Arwen draws her skirts away, as dignified and disapproving as can be.

“Oh ‘Wen,” he says, laughing still, “I am not frightened of you, you may be aging, but I remember you when you were small, and stamped your foot and shouted that you hated your hair. I suppose we should have known then you would end up a mortal.”

I freeze in shock, in horror that he should jest of something so – so awful, but Arwen laughs, and agrees.

‘Ro has truly drunk well, and – and I have not the wit to stop him when he says, 

“Is it worth it?”

She looks at him, silent, almost sobered by his words – almost. Not actually sobered or she would not answer.

“What? Loving him? Those years? I – I do not know. How can I tell?” she sighs, “That is the unfairness of it. Were I elf – I could not love another. You know how elves are. I would perhaps have faded with his death or marriage elsewhere anyway. And now I am mortal – now I see that I could love another – but I would be mortal still.”

“In Valinor?” I ask, because I have wondered this so often, “if Ada had made us all sail – before you knew Estel, or – or even when you did but before you married – if we had all gone – do you not think you might have found another?”

She looks at me,

“And if you sailed without ‘Ro,” she asks, “would there one day be more elflings in the line of Earendil?”

I shake my head, understanding. 

No. If I had not ‘Ro, I would be nothing. I – I would fall apart and wither.

“It does not seem fair,” ‘Ro says, slowly, and we shake our heads in agreement. No. It does not seem fair at all. But no-one said the Valar had to be fair.

There is silence, and then – then ‘Ro sits up straight again, and,

“But that is not what I meant,” he begins, “I meant – was the – icky – the – doing – things – worth bearing to have the children?”

“It must be, idiot ‘Ro,” I say, “or no-one would have more than one. Unless they were twins.”

And – and now Arwen is laughing and laughing at us.

She does not explain, but – I suppose she means yes. 

She certainly was always very fond of her children.

 

 

 

 

The days pass, the seasons turn.

Our sister – our sister begins to look – tired.

She does not age, not with lines, and crumbling as we have seen mortals do, she does not become forgetful, nor confused.

She sleeps more.

Still that awful, frightening sleep of eyes closed, and song – but she has no song – song silenced.

Her hair is not allowed to regrow. She keeps it short, she explains to us about her wrappings – and we realise she is telling us how to lay her to rest when she is gone.

We ache.

‘Ro says I should not speak, but – I must. I know I will never forgive myself if I do not try.

“’Wen,” I say, “little ‘Wen, will you not sail with us? Surely – if Glorfindel himself pleaded for you – he is beloved by the Valar – surely they would let you come – even if only for a short time – to see Naneth once more?”

She shakes her head, and repeats that that was not the agreement. She has made her choice and she stands by it.

“Well then,” I try, “will you – will you at least let us comb you – it is not like to be long now, the way you are – may we not comb you these last times? You – you are our little sister ‘Wen, and we love you.”

She swallows and looks away,

“I cannot comb,” she says, “I – I have lost the skill, the pleasure, I – please ‘Dan, do not ask it.”

I clench my fists,

“I do not believe you,” I say, “I have seen – I should not have, but I did – I have seen that dwarf of Thranduilion’s comb with him. How can you say you cannot?”

She looks straight at me, and I recognise that a hard truth is coming,

“He sailed also,” she says, “and much good it will have done either of them. Legolas will still have had to watch him die. And – Gimli may have combed – indeed, I imagine he learnt to with great skill, if the satisfaction on Legolas’ face was anything to go by – “ and I blush, I do not want to hear about that, “but only to keep his elf happy. There was no pleasure in it for him, not really. At least,” and there is a flash of the mischievous elfling I remember as she grins, “not in the combing. Only in the – things – he could persuade Legolas to afterwards.”

And now – now I am more than blushing, I am unable to look at her, or at ‘Ro, or anywhere but my feet – I did not want to hear of that.

“Enough,” I say, “they – they – I do not want to think about that.”

And she laughs.

At least, I think, I have made her laugh again.

 

 

 

That is not quite the last time she laughs.

We speak of early days, happy days long ago, and she smiles.

We remember times of love, of happiness with our parents, of lessons, of foolishness – and she laughs.

We speak of her wedding, her children, all the years of her love – and she smiles.

We stay with her to the end.

We do not weep while she can know it.

But when she is gone – we cling to each other, and we hold nothing back.

 

 

 

Our sister is gone, and oh my brother, my brother, she has left us, and gone, and you are all I have, all I can depend on, all to me, all. Brother my brother, never leave me, vow to me once more, tell me all will be well, tell me we will sail together, and never be parted, tell me as I tell you, for you are everything to me, and without you I am nothing, I am not half what we are together, you hold my fea and I yours, we are two halves of one whole, yet alone I am nothing, you are all to me, all, and I – I love you so.

Vow to me again, as I to you.

Hold me, comb me, touch my ears, as I you.

Make a world for me where there is none but us, where there is no you, no me, only us, and nothing outside our love, our need.

I love you so, and I am yours, and you are mine, and there is no end and no beginning to our love and need.

So it is, so it has ever been for us.

We are ElladanandElrohir.


End file.
